Boots
Detective Adam Shelton found himself lying on the motel bed, gazing up at the ceiling. The sounds of passing cars and tractor-trailers on Route 441 filled the air, along with the raucous commotion of inebriated sales representatives navigating the hallways, accompanied by random prostitutes. While the Stay-Less Inn wasn't the Hyatt, it was a far cry from some of the dismal truck stop motels he'd hidden out in before. It would suffice, at least until the anticipated call arrived.
Shelton shifted his gaze to the left, where a sliver of moonlight seeped through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale stripe across his face, reminiscent of Adam Ant. Through that opening, he could catch a glimpse of the office park situated across the parking lot, opposite the vacant swimming pool just outside his window.
The assignment appeared deceptively simple, almost too good to be true, yet too enticing to pass up. Successfully completing it would secure a promotion and take him one step closer to Washington. Shelton couldn't help but reflect on the peculiar tasks the department had assigned him in the past. These tasks, offered to him because of his less-than-clean reputation, were specifically tailored to his willingness to bend the rules. Planting cameras and microphones in a nondescript chiropractic clinic seemed utterly absurd, but it was just one of many assignments that exploited his position as a dirty cop. Despite suspicions that the clinic operated as a front for a Chicago crime boss, there was no concrete evidence linking it to Joseph "Joey Boots" Butoli or any of his criminal activities.
As the night wore on, there was no sign of anyone near the clinic. The informant had informed Shelton that a small group of Butoli's South Florida drug dealers, disguised as cleaning crew, would arrive at 3:00 A.M. – a routine they followed every Wednesday. Concealed within their equipment were several kilos of uncut cocaine, which would be adulterated for sale to anyone with a modest sum and a desire to party. The crew was expected to enter at three, exit by six, and, if all went according to plan, find themselves behind bars by seven.
Shelton closed his eyes, reminiscing about his early days in the sheriff's department. He hadn't joined the force out of a deep sense of duty to the community, a passion for protecting the innocent, or even for the excellent medical and dental benefits. Rather, he had carried a chip on his shoulder since high school, and becoming a cop had been the way to put it to use with little or no repercussions. The decent pay didn't hurt either. The sheriff's department had always been a stepping-stone, and tonight's operation could potentially catapult him toward D.C. via Tallahassee. He envisioned himself receiving an award from the president for...
The tune "Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do..." blared from his phone's ringtone, snapping him back to reality. He didn't need to glance at the phone's display; he knew who was calling and had no intention of answering it. The 2:00 A.M. signal indicated that Butoli's men would arrive within the hour, and Shelton needed to vacate the premises before then. Shelton sprang from the bed as if it had ejected him.
He swiftly donned his black field jacket and slid into his black boots, privately amused by his own esoteric joke. Topping it off, he pulled on a black baseball cap and checked his reflection in the mirror on the back of the motel room door. A glance at his watch confirmed that his ride would arrive in thirteen minutes.
Stationed at the window, he periodically peered through the curtains, patiently awaiting the appearance of headlights on the northern stretch of Route 441. Soon enough, a cab came into view, halting in the middle of the street just outside the motel entrance, clearly visible from his room. The driver flashed the high beams twice. Shelton parted a curtain and lit a cigarette. The driver toggled the headlights off and on once more – the pre-arranged signal. It was time to go.
Shelton seized his black canvas bag from the bed, took one last look at his reflection, and exited the room. As he passed the front desk, he noticed the night attendant's absence. It didn't particularly concern him; she might have been taking a smoke break outside. The room had been paid for in cash, and no receipt was necessary. Shelton proceeded to the waiting cab.
Entering the back seat, his gaze remained fixed on the clinic across the street. "Well," he began, addressing the driver, "That's about all she wrote, huh?" Silence greeted him. He turned to repeat himself but discovered that the front seat was empty. Bewilderment crept in. "What the-"
His attention was immediately drawn to a Smartphone mounted on the dashboard, displaying a live video image of Joey Boots, wearing a sardonic grin. "Wow, Adam," Butoli taunted, "This is the first time we actually agree on somethin'...and the last!"
Panic surged through Detective Adam Shelton as he instinctively reached for the door, only to be interrupted by a sudden muscle twitch when the cab exploded. He had been right; the operation had been far too easy to trust.
Across the city, at a nondescript chiropractic clinic, a cleaning crew arrived at 3:00 A.M., their routine like clockwork. Six men efficiently unloaded their equipment and disappeared inside. They would be gone by six and, if all went as planned, several miles away by seven.
© 2018 Shawn Lyte
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Creative Writing